


By You

by orphan_account



Category: Genesis (Band)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Emotions, Exploration, Fluff, I regret this, If You Squint - Freeform, Kink Exploration, M/M, One Night Stands, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You think maybe he likes to get pegged, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 16:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony Banks learns the meaning of self-care. It wasn't what he was expecting, not at all.Disclaimer: This is not meant to imply anything about the reality of our favourite musicians' lives, I just have a massive crush on this bloke and too much free time on my hands.





	By You

Unsurprisingly, there is a bar located deep in the heart of Soho. 

It's called the Black Goat. You'd assume that a bar called “The Black Goat” wouldn't be the most wholesome of places, and you'd be exactly right. 

It could, without much of a stretch, be called a den of iniquity, although mostly by people who tend toward the pearl-clutching side of the equation. 

People didn't just come here to get drinks. Besides me. 

Well, no, that's a lie, I come here for the drinks _and_ the atmosphere. 

And, of course, the people. 

You get all sorts here. Truly. If you wrote down all the attributes that could apply to someone, stuck them in a hat, and fished out a few, they'd describe someone who'd been here. 

The bartender was a very friendly man with a beard, who has a voice so low it's almost out of the range of human hearing. 

His name is Will. It's pretty much common knowledge that he's pulled more boys than I've had hot meals. Presently, he was pouring me a glass of wine. 

“Cheers, Will,” I said absently, pushing my change across the bar to him. You may wonder what had me so distracted. Well, I'll tell you. There was this man. 

I know. Shocking. 

But there was something a bit odd about him. He acted different than most patrons. Most people who came here acted very, very purposefully normal, as if to maintain the illusion that they'd come here to get a pint and nothing more. He... wasn't. 

He was sitting by the window and had a tall glass of beer next to him, which wasn't at all abnormal, but he was also wringing his hands a bit, a nervous tic, I suppose. 

Yes. Nervous. That was certainly the word for him. Quite furtive, too. Perhaps he was famous. Or just married. Yes, the latter seemed more likely, considering I didn't recognise him at all. 

Everyone comes to the Black Goat to look for something, but they all pretend like they aren't, right up until they get it. He was definitely looking for something, or more likely, someone. It helped that he was definitely rather attractive. 

His face had a very pleasant sort of angularity to it, certainly- from this angle, you could see he had a bit of a cleft chin. His dark, wavy hair was cut dignifiedly close to his face. 

He had an elegance I was almost sure he wasn't aware of- people who are aware that they look like models would generally wear something other than an overlarge navy-blue wool jumper, or at the very least, clean the dirt from beneath their fingernails.

It should be mentioned that, while I do love to see the people here and watch what they get up to, I rarely get involved myself. You come here to meet up with a “certain type of someone”, but I've only ever pulled a few. And it was because they were the quiet ones.

Finally, my curiosity piqued, I got out of the distressingly sticky barstool (Don't ask. It's been washed, but some things never come off.) and made my way over to the man's table. He didn't seem to notice me.

“Are you, er, waiting for anyone?” I asked, gesturing casually to the empty chair next to him. 

He looked up at me, nervousness and surprise evident in his eyes. They were quite a lovely shade of blue, I noticed. 

“What? No. No, you're… you're free to sit down. If you'd like.” 

“I would, thanks.” I set my glass on the table, also oddly sticky, and plonked down in the chair, crossing my legs entirely out of habit. He was looking at me from out of the side of his eye. 

My first and very immediate instinct was to talk about the weather, which was the usual slightly rheumy English overcast. 

Dismissing that as a moderately terrible idea, I quite blurted out, “Been doing a bit of gardening?” 

He looked at me with a bit of shock, then looked down at his hands. “Oh. Yes. I have, actually, and I should probably, probably wash my hands a bit more carefully.” He finished the sentence off with a trace of a nervous laugh.

I smiled at him, in a way which I hoped was winningly. “Oh, don't do that, it's not every day I get to play Sherlock Holmes to strangers in bars.” 

“Have you got any more you can tell about me, then? Any more, er, deductions, as it were?” 

I took the opportunity to look over him more closely. I didn't see any clues, but I did see a very pretty man. 

I shrugged. “Search me. All that I can really see besides the gardening bit is that you might've been abroad. Tops of your hands, they're as brown as a nut. And you've been writing with an old-fashioned pen. Stains on your fingers, see.” 

I looked at him quite directly as he made several attempts to give me a discreet once-over. I wouldn't blame him. There's a lot to look at here. A lot of hair, namely, back in that day. 

I had a very large Afro, and tended to wear shirts that showed off my chest, which had upon it a small, gold star of David pendant nestled in black hair. 

No, I did not have, and have never had a moustache. Get that image out of your head. 

In an attempt to keep the conversation from careering off the road, I asked him, “So you like gardening, then?”

He nodded. “I do. It, er, it takes my mind off things, I find. A lot of it’s repetitive stuff, you know, sort of meditative labour.” 

I nodded. He talked rather oddly. He was definitely a public school boy, if you catch my meaning. You know. The sort of man who pronounces both “year” and “here” like “hyah”. 

Not only that, but he talked very, very fast, and very, very quietly. I found the combination pleasantly disorientating. 

“Is it peaceful, being out among the lettuces?” I asked, with a subtle smile. 

This made him laugh a bit. “Well, no, not as such- I actually haven't got any lettuces in my, in my garden. Tried to grow them last year, but they all got eaten- a sort of mite, I think it was that, er, took them out.” 

“Too bad,” I said sympathetically. “What do you grow, then, if not lettuces?”

He shifted in his seat. “Oh, lots of things. Basically whatever will grow here. We've got tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, you know, things like that.”

“Just a hobby, though, right?” It sort of went without saying that someone as posh as him wouldn't settle for the life of a gardener. 

“Yes, although there are some times I enjoy it more, er, more than my actual job, actually.” 

“Which would be? If you'll pardon my asking.” 

“I’m in a band, actually. I play- I do the keyboard work, and, you know, write the lyrics on a few songs. I've had since projects of my own, but my work with them is most of what I do, and most of what, er, puts bread on the table, really.” 

He took a sip of his pint, directing most of his sight back to the window. I raised an eyebrow. 

“So you're a musician full-time?”

“That's right.” 

“Would I have heard of you?” 

He seemed to consider this. “Well, it depends on your tastes, and what you listen to, I suppose. Though we have seen rather a large amount of success, in general.” 

I began trying to re-evaluate him. It didn't seem like he was lying about being successful. In fact, he seemed as if he was understating it. I again wondered why he might be here. 

“What sort of success?” 

He tucked a bit of hair behind his ear. “The odd single, on a few of our records. The last one did very well, really,” he said, in a manner that suggested he'd half-forgotten about its success. 

I confess, I must've looked incredulous. 

“Actual hits? Here? Not in, er, Slovenia or someplace like that?” 

“Well, I don't know about Slovenia,” he laughed, “but, er, yes, we've had some hits here. A few in America, too, as I seem to recall.” 

I went back to my red. “Well, forgive me for saying so, but I don't recognise you.” 

He let out a wry puff of laughter. “Under the circumstances, I suppose it's for the best, really.” 

I looked long and hard at him. He knew I was, but didn't look back. 

“Alright. I've got to ask,” I said after a long pause. “Why are you here?” 

He looked around, slowly yet furtively. 

“To get away, I suppose.” He reconsidered this, and sighed in annoyance at himself. “No, not to get away. That's wrong.” 

He looked at me directly, for pretty much the first time since I’d come over to him. “Why d’you ask, anyhow?” 

“Well, let's be honest with ourselves here,” I said, and then immediately regretted it. That might sound harsh, especially to him. 

I continued. 

“This isn't the place you come for a nice pint and some atmosphere. This is The Black Goat. You come here for a hook-up. These not-so-hallowed grounds have played host to criminals, perverts, sexual deviants, and even members of Parliament.” 

He couldn't help but laugh a very small bit at that last addition. A brief silence passed between us. 

“Look,” I said gently, “you haven't even taken off your wedding ring. You've probably got kids, too, I'm guessing.” 

He refused to meet my eye. “Get a lot of married men here, do you? More of your sexual deviants?” The words carried a trace of bitterness, like a cyanide pill. 

“Deviants in whose eyes? Sure, they come around here, but they're mostly harmless. Mostly old men, too. Looking for… something more interesting, I’d guess. Certain ladies with certain… attributes.”

He looked at me with a vague sort of horror. “You don't think I’m one of them, do you?” 

“You don't  _ look _ over fifty,” I remarked, eliciting a touch more dry laughter. “No,” I continued pensively, “you don't strike me as any of our usual sort. That's why I came over to talk to you. You interest me.” 

“Well, you see, that's a bit odd to me, really, because I'm really not interesting at all.” 

I smiled out of the corner of my mouth. “That sounds like something an interesting man would say. Don't worry. It's alright. I'm a private person, too.” 

Now it was his turn to look incredulous, in a polite sort of way. 

“Well, it's odd that you happened to be here, then, because this certainly doesn't seem like the kind of place a private person would frequent.” 

“And yet here we both are.”

We sat in a tense, studious mire of silence. He studied me, and I studied him. 

“You ask rather a lot of questions,” he said, finally. 

“I know. I'm sorry. But do you mind if I ask one more?” 

He retreated back to the comfort of his pint glass “That all depends on what it is, really.” 

“What's your name?” 

He had to think about this one, which, under any other circumstance, would've been really odd. 

“Tony,” he said eventually. “Forgive me if I'm not as forthcoming about my surname.” 

I nodded. “Oh, no, that's absolutely understandable. Tony, eh? Well, I'm Ari. Ari Cohen, I'm... decidedly not married.” 

“Ari. Is that short for something, then?”

“Nope. Just Ari. Means ‘Lion’ in Hebrew.” 

He digested this information for a moment. “I haven't the faintest clue what Tony means. It means Anthony, I suppose.” He finished off this sentence with a short laugh. 

“You suppose? My, I've never met a man who was unsure of his own name before.” 

“No, it is, it is! I mean, it isn't exactly a very exotic name, I'm sure you can remember it." 

"Right, right." 

We both took some time to enjoy our respective drinks. 

“Well, Tony,” I said to him after I'd put my glass down, “I don't suppose you'd tell me what you came here after.” 

“It all depends. I don't know,” he said, with a trace of stubbornness. 

“Well,” I said carefully, “if you tell me what you're looking for, I can help you find it.” 

He glanced around a bit, even though nobody had sat within five metres of us. When he did get around to speaking, the information came out all fragmented. 

“Well. When, you know, when you're… When you're with a woman, there's a… a certain expectation, you know, that one would tend to, er, to take a more dominant role,” he gabbled, moving his hands about like an orchestra conductor. 

“And I thought, well, I assume that, really, with a man, the same would, er, would not be expected.” He sat there, eyes directed at the floor, rocking back and forth very slightly in his chair. 

I nodded in a way which I thought was encouraging. Tony seemed like the sort of man who had great difficulty talking earnestly to his friends and family, let alone talking about his potentially taboo sexual preferences with a stranger.

“So… is that all you're looking for, then? A man?” I asked as a bit of prompting. “Any other criteria? I mean, for instance, what do you find attractive?” 

This seemed to bother him. “I don't… I don't know. I mean, I don't think I find men attractive at all, really. I'm not a homosexual. I've, I've got a wife, and I love her very much and quite genuinely, and I don't think I'm wrong about that.” 

“I never said you were wrong about anything.” I took a sip of my wine. “I can tell it's very hard for you to talk about this.” 

He nodded. “It is. I just feel so… It was wrong of me. I lied to Margaret, I lied to the kids, I lied to my bandmates, about where I'd be…” He looked up at me, not quite angry, and not quite frightened. 

“There's a word for this. Cheating. That's what I'm doing, and there's no point in denying it, because that's what it is, really, and I should just… I should really just go home.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes as if it were late at night, never mind that it was only evening.

I waited a little, then said diplomatically, “You wouldn't have done that for nothing. Something must've compelled you to come here.” 

“I'm not a homosexual,” he repeated. 

“I believe you.” 

“No, really!” he insisted, his expression taking on a slight offended cast. “I don't think I could name a single thing in the world I love more than Margaret. A-and if you think about it, really, why would I lie about that? Here, of all, of all places, with everything that I've said?” 

“No, I believe you,” I said, still calm, but making a bit more of an effort to come across earnestly. 

He seemed to believe me this time. “Oh. I-I thought you were taking the piss.” he said awkwardly. 

I shook my head. 

He cleared his throat. “Yes. As, as I was saying, I mean, you're right, of course. I wouldn't do this for just nothing. I mean, I've got a lot to lose. A lot I wouldn't want to lose, I suppose. I like my life quite a lot as it is, it's just… it's just a feeling, an, an urge, really.” 

Ah. There it is. 

I nodded understandingly. 

“It, it distracts me sometimes, and I just can't get it to go away. I feel… empty, in a way, although that's really not the right word for it, I don't think. I just… God, I just need…” 

He massaged the bridge of his nose with a fury. “There's something the matter with me. That's just it. There's something wrong with me, something… deviant.” He looked on the verge of panicking outright. 

I tried to keep my tone level. “Tony. It's alright.” 

He shook his head wildly. “Well, you see, it just isn't, is it? It's not like I'm just wanting something, something a bit different, something a little more interesting, I mean these are thoughts a man shouldn't have!” 

As he'd proceeded down this rambling rabbit hole, his voice had gotten gradually quieter and quieter, and most of his words were blending together. 

I was very intrigued at this point. He did seem like he was just exaggerating. Well, not exaggerating, necessarily, but he did seem to share the same views as society at large, which was that a man taking a sexually submissive role was something wholly abnormal. 

Which, if you think about it, was why places like The Black Goat sprung up to begin with. So we could enjoy the things society took a dim view of, and have some damn peace and quiet to boot. 

“No, it really is alright,” I said firmly. “A man can have whatever thoughts he bloody well wants to. So can a woman. We're all our own people.” 

He looked at me hard. “We are. But we’ve all got responsibilities, you know, and I can't just go off and do what I please.” 

I nodded slowly. “Yes. I get that. You can't listen to your urges all the time, or even most of the time. It's what makes the world go ‘round, people doing things they don't want to. But if you just bottle it up, clap a lid on it forever, and you're bound to go mad.” 

“Well, I wouldn't go mad,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I'm not exactly the type, I mean, you know?” 

“Happens to the best of us,” I continued. “And in different ways, too. You know, Tony, sometimes it's alright to give in. Let yourself love what you love. And you don't have to flagellate yourself about it, that is, unless that's what you were thinking of.” 

He let out a short laugh of mild disbelief and embarrassment. “What, flagellation as in, er, the whips sort of thing? Oh, no. No, no, no. Not, not at all.” 

I let myself have a smile as well. “Good, good, ‘cause I don't get off on that either. Not for me, I find.” 

He stared at me. I could just see thoughts swirling around urgently in river-currents behind his eyes. An odd metaphor, but far less overused than cogs. 

This would've been a lovely little scene, with swelling violin bits in the background and all, had we not been distracted by the very loud and distinct noise of an argument happening in the background. 

A florid, middle-aged man with a nose like a strawberry had gotten up from his seat and was haranguing a very tall, willowy woman with a sequined dress and very long platinum-blonde hair. 

They had very likely been arguing this whole time, but just not loud enough to cut through the general background chatter. 

“Over my dead body, Deborah!” he screamed, in a conspicuously Scottish way. 

I looked over at Tony, who just looked very tired of the whole ordeal already. “Shall we get out of here?” 

He took one look at the arguing couple, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, let's.” We left rather hurriedly, “dashed” would be a better word. In the ensuing chaos, I somehow managed to ask, “Is my flat alright?”, to which Tony responded, “Well, I don't know, is it?” 

I answered him by hailing a taxi. Once inside, I told the driver to go to “Harringdon Gardens, and be quick about it.” 

Once the door slammed shut, it was as if we were in our own bubble, with regards to the cabbie. 

Tony was largely silent. He was staring at something outside the window. 

“What's so interesting?” I asked. 

“Oh, nothing,” he said, very self-dismissively. You know, with a shake of the head, a little not-laugh and everything. “Just, you know. The buildings, the people.” 

“Come to London often, then?” 

He appeared to have to think about this a bit. “I mean, yes, quite often on business, but, as I'm sure you can imagine, I've never really been to, er, Soho, at least not for very long.” 

He went back to looking out the window, as if drawn by a magnet. I rested my chin on my hand, and was content to look. 

He was ethereally beautiful, especially in that light. The planes of his face were smooth, and looked almost sculpted, as if for the very purpose of being pleasing to the eye. His hair fell in neat, yet not purposeful waves around his face. 

I confess, I was staring most unabashedly, but I couldn't find a single reason why I wouldn't. 

“Lord above, you're beautiful,” I said quite softly. 

“I'm not quite sure how I feel about you calling me that, really.” He mumbled it from behind his hand. 

I frowned. “How d'you mean?” 

“Well, that's the sort of compliment reserved for, well, women, not to be too blunt, and, er, pieces of art, that sort of thing.” 

“Well, since you're clearly not the former, unless you've got something to tell me, that is- let's just say you're the latter.” 

He looked at me, with something bordering on astonishment, and rooted very firmly in fear. 

Then he kissed me.

It was a very chaste kiss, nothing more than a prolonged brushing of lips. I was a lot more surprised that he'd initiated it than anything about the kiss itself. 

He withdrew, lips still very slightly apart, a certain dreamlike quality about him. I made sure that didn't last very long at all, putting a gentle yet firm hand round the back of his head, and pulling him to me. 

He kissed like a teenage boy, still very much fascinated by precisely how soft lips can be. No tongue, not yet- if he didn't want to, I didn't. 

When the car came to a stop, he seemed to remember that we were technically in public, eyes darting everywhere. 

“Come on,” I told him, and we got out. 

The block of flats I lived in was absolutely the most boring place in the world to my eye, but not to Tony's. He looked around, at every detail he could see. 

“The lift’s broken,” I told him. “Stairs are over there.” 

“Oh, that's a drag,” he said, as we began our ascent. “My knee’s been giving me a bit of trouble- thought that does make me sound like a bit of an old man, come to think of it.”

“Funny, you look very young. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?” 

“Thirty-two.” 

My eyebrows shot up. “Oh. I'm… I'm twenty-seven.” 

We both stopped in our tracks and just sort of… looked at each other. “You’ve got a remarkable face.” 

“And you've got a lot of hair,” he responded, with a laugh. 

“That I do.” 

In time, we had gotten to the fourth floor, where my flat was. We both tumbled out of the stairwell, a little out of breath. I unlocked my door and strode in, Tony shuffling behind somewhat awkwardly.

“Do you, er, share this place with anyone else? Any flatmates or lodgers sort of thing?” 

I let out a derisive laugh. “For what I'm paying for it? I should hope not.” 

He wandered around a bit, taking looks at everything he could. 

“You've caught me on a good day,” I remarked offhandedly. “I've actually tidied. Well, depending on your definition of tidy…” 

He shook his head. “No, it's quite neat, actually, compared to some places I used to live. Trust me, when you’ve toured across Britain in a van, everything begins to look tidy, in perspective.” He walked towards my desk. “What's, er, what's this?” 

I went to go see what it was he was looking at. He had a very delicate gold chain with a heart-shaped locket on it pinned down in his gaze. 

“That? That's a commission. I'm an amateur jeweler, you see.” 

He nodded his head understanding. “Oh. It's, uh, it seems to be very fine work.” 

I grinned. “That? I made that one in half an hour. That's nothing.” 

There was a stack of white cardboard boxes, most of them flat and square, at the back of my desk. Tony watched attentively and with a very slight frown as I rifled through them and pulled a few out. 

I held one out to him, and took off the lid with a flourish. Inside, there was a neat pile of gold chain, twinkling in the black velour. 

“What is it? I mean, it just sort of looks like a lot of gold, although I'm sure, I'm sure it looks like something when you put it on-” 

I held it up by the clasp, trying to best demonstrate. “You see, it goes all the way up and down the neck. It sort of drapes, like so.” 

It’s difficult to explain without seeing it, but, when worn, fifteen circles of chain would snugly ring the wearer’s neck. 

Tony nodded. “I do, actually. Very nice. Very, oh, what's the word- I, I saw something like it in a documentary once. Like a, a Nubian princess or something.”

I returned the necklace to its case, and proffered the other one I'd selected. This one seemed to catch his attention even more. It was bright and silver, like stars. Three strands of chain branched off from either clasp. He looked at it like a child looks at a wondrous and mesmerising insect. 

“Oh. May I?” I nodded my assent.

He picked it up with a certain amount of reverence, watching the light play off of it. 

“Ari,” he said after a while, “You, you said you made this for someone else, I realise, but- May I wear it? Just, er, just for now?” 

A smile warmed my face. He was just so- so hesitant. “Of course you bloody well can. Just let me put it on you, alright? The chains can get a little tangled sometimes.” 

“Yes, that's, er, I'd imagine they can.” 

I ushered him in front of my mirror, and then carefully began to pull down the zip on his jumper. 

It felt strangely intimate- my hands brushing his collarbones as I untangled the necklace, and the nape of his neck as I did up the clasp- never mind that we had just been swapping spit in the taxicab. 

He kept staring straight ahead in the mirror, visibly trying to keep his expression dead. I stood back, and my stomach did one of those strange little flips it does sometimes. 

He looked… well, there are a great many words for it, but chief among them would be “gorgeous”, “stunning”, “otherworldly”, and “ethereal”. This man, with the beautiful face and the plain clothes, could just sit there and wait for the moon and stars to revolve around him.

His sweater, tatty, blue, and much too big for him, was open to reveal the top bit of his chest and his collarbone. The necklace draped outwards from the centre of his neck and dipped over his shoulders, all surmounted by his face, which- what can I say. Really. What can I. 

“What do you think?” he asked, almost a whisper. 

“What do I think?” I exclaimed. “No, no- Tony, what do you think?” 

He stared into the mirror for a good, long time. 

“I rather like it.” 

That was an understatement, to understate things. I could just never get over how delicately the silver chain lay against his skin.

“I like it too.” 

Perhaps that wasn't exactly the right thing to say. Not very creative or poetic, I know. But, in the end, I wasn't going to say much more, because I really couldn't help but kiss him. 

He leaned into it more this time, tilting his head a little. When we both came apart, we were looking very intently at one another, him more with apprehension than anything else. Even though I was very slightly shorter than him, he seemed to be looking up at me. 

He looked struck- moonstruck, starstruck, lovestruck- something of the sort. His blue eyes were so wide- oceans he floated in without a direction or a clue. 

“Tony,” I said measuredly, “what do you want me to do?” 

He turned away, eyebrows contorting. “I don't know. I just- I don't know. I really don't know.” 

I put an arm around him. He stiffened instinctively, at first, but then relaxed a bit. 

“I'll take care of things, in that case. But if I do anything you're not alright with- anything at all- please let me know. And be clear about it. Use your words. Please.” 

He frowned and blinked, as if entirely unsure what to do with that information. “Alright,” he said eventually. For once, he seemed quite lost for words.

I leaned in with another kiss, not in earnest, really, just to get him to come round. He breathed out his apprehension, and moved with me, sort of stumbling without going really anywhere. 

We stayed like that for a second or two, when I felt the wet sliver of his tongue brush up against my lips. My heart skipped a beat. Was it accidental? No, he did it again. 

Fine, then. He was asking for it. 

I broke the seal between our mouths, and created a new seal altogether- one between us and the outside world. His eyes were closed very lightly, and I could feel him gripping me gently, in an awkward embrace. No, he really didn't have the first clue, did he? 

Laughing deep in the back of my throat, I did what I'd been waiting to do since I first saw him, first realised. I dug my fingers into his soft, dark curls, and twined my own tongue with his.

Something about that kiss could be called “seizing”, I thought. I seized him, in a way. 

He was tenuous, holding back, and, while I really couldn't blame him, I had to do something about it. 

When we surfaced to take a breath, I led him towards the bed. “Here. Lay back,” I mumbled. 

He obliged, looking at me as if to divine my next move. Which was, of course, to throw a leg over him, and pick up where we left off. 

He didn't have a clue what to do, but by god he was trying. I'd imagine he'd be a very good kisser indeed if he wasn't so flustered. 

I kept running my hand through his hair. I couldn't help it. It was soft, but each curl had distinct structure, which I could feel under my hand. 

Humans are soft things. We forget this after a while, if the only humans we're close to are ourselves. Tony reminded me of this very well. 

His skin hummed with possibilities. I decided to explore them. 

Withdrawing my tongue from his mouth, I began tracing his jaw which was softly abrasive like fine sandpaper, drawing little circles on his skin. I worked my way lower, planting kisses all along his neck. This drew noises out of his mouth, soft and sigh-like. 

As I was doing that, I let my hands creep up the back of his jumper, slowly stroking up and down his smooth, bare back. Gradually, I got to the point where I just yanked it over his head outright. He seemed very surprised, but didn't have much time to dwell on it. 

If there was a feature on his chest, I was tracing it with my tongue. His collarbones, the ridges of his clavicle- everything. It was perfect to me. 

I let my tongue brush, in an almost accidental way, against a nipple. It was already stiff from the coldness of the room, and appeared quite sensitive. He tensed up a little more almost immediately, taking in a sudden breath. I then knew I was onto something. 

I flicked my tongue against it, teasing him, setting about his hardened nubs like I'd kissed his mouth. His breathing shuddered, and became more tonal. His arms went as if to cross his chest, spasmodically, automatically. Instead, he pressed his hands against the back of my head. 

It was a clear message, albeit one not technically spoken. "More. Harder." 

With a smirk, I took my mouth lower, away from the thin, birdlike perfection of his chest. I went down, across his ribcage, then below it, to the slump of his stomach. I took my mouth away, grinning a little. He looked at me with wide, unfocused eyes, the necklace jingling musically. 

I began to work at undoing his belt buckle, but he put a hand on mine, and finished the job himself. He began to struggle out of his trousers, still leaving his pants on underneath. 

I smirked. "You think you'll be needing those?" 

Soon enough, both garments were lying in a pile on the floor. 

"Oh." 

The look on his face was indecipherable, but I'd describe it as dazed. 

My eyes swept over him- hungrily, I will confess it. Between his beauty and the necklace he wore, he looked at once regal and delicate, dignified and yet so undone. 

I unbuttoned my shirt in record time, then did away with my trousers in a similar manner. I managed to tear my eyes away from him long enough to get a bottle of lubricant from the nightstand. He watched me pour some over my fingers. 

Laying myself over him, I put one hand on the small of his back, and, with the other, I reached deep between his legs. 

I tried to be gentle. I really did. But, no matter, Tony cried out very loudly. I looked at him in concern, his chest heaving up and down, his head thrown back on the pillow. 

"Are you alright? Did it hurt?" 

He took in a deep breath that shuddered out from between his teeth, and told me that yes, it did hurt. 

I took my hand away. "Should I stop?" 

He didn't say anything for what felt like a long time. Then he shook his head, put a hand on my wrist, and pushed it down. 

Well. That was that, then. I made sure to be as gentle as I possibly could this time, using more lubricant until I could slide a finger in smoothly. He squirmed at the unfamiliar sensation. 

I noticed his legs moving strangely, as if he was trying very hard to stop himself from closing them. I eased a second finger into him, eliciting noises which could most definitely be described as soft, high moans. 

I moved them back and forth, slowly, almost obscenely so. He felt so soft and warm inside, like silk in hot water. All the while, I could see him getting hard in front of me, his blushing length nestled among the black curls. 

He must be wanting so badly to come. I knew it instinctively. But I wasn't going to let him have his yet. 

I slowly spread my fingers apart. 

"Aaah!" he whimpered, shakily. He was shivering- from what, precisely, I didn't know. 

I put my hands on his waist. "Okay. I think this'll work best if you lie on your stomach, alright?" I whispered to him. He gave me a shaky nod, and managed to turn over. 

"Up a little- there, that's it. I can hold you if you'd like. Alright. Maybe if you spread your legs a little- there, that's perfect." And indeed it was. He was laid out before me, absolutely everything in place, clearly longing to be filled. 

But then he turned around, and the expression on his face brought me back down to earth. It wasn't lust that I saw in his eyes. It was fear. And I wouldn't stand for that. 

I cupped his chin in my hand. "Hey. It's going to be alright. You're going to be fine. You just lay back there, and I’m going to make you feel good, alright?" 

He nodded, jerkily, as if he'd lost a bit of control over his own muscles. 

"If it doesn't feel good, we can stop, alright? We can stop any time." 

Another nod. 

"Alright." 

As he readjusted his position, I went and got a small foil packet from the nightstand. I tore it open, and rolled the rubber over my cock. I put a bit more lube on it, shivering at the contact of something so cold. 

I got back on the bed, and kneeled. Then, with increasingly louder moans from Tony, I gradually eased inside him. 

I began rocking my hips back and forth, trying to get a little further in each time. He was so tight, it was difficult. It occurred to me that I should’ve prepared him better. 

He was older than me, so it was hard to remember that he was, for our purposes, a virgin. He certainly took it better than one- or perhaps he was just quieter. 

I could feel him getting more slack under me as I eased my way in. Already, it felt like heaven. I put an arm around his waist. I could make him feel like heaven too. 

I brushed my fingers over his cock, playing over the head and down the shaft. He nearly choked on his own breath, he was shaking so badly. 

I started moving my hips faster, working in and out, in and out. He had me nearly down to the hilt now. 

He cried out again, a vague sound, and came all over my hands. Unable to stop, I kept thrusting in and out of him, but he collapsed onto the bed, his body drained of motivation and energy. 

Eventually, I came, too. A hot sensation overwhelmed my head, and drowsiness overwhelmed my mind. 

I lay on top of Tony for a while, both of us trying to slow our breathing and our racing hearts. His skin was flushed and soft, and I lay my head on his back for a good while. 

Eventually, he got up, without saying a word. He came back a little later, with a towel in hand. He'd been to the toilet, then. I thought that was a good idea, went as well, and came back to see him laying restfully on one side of the bed, angelically naked. 

I stroked a hand over his face, still usually warm. He looked up at me. 

"You alright, love?" I asked. He seemed to flinch a little at me calling him that, but, well, you win some, you lose some. 

"Yeah. I'm, er, I'm quite fine, actually. You, you keep asking, I'm just wondering if there's any particular-" 

"Oh, not really," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "You just sounded a little like you were crying, a few times." 

He shook his head. "Not crying, no." 

I laid down next to him, and draped the covers over both of us.

"I want you to know that that was a lot, alright? But you did well. I'm proud of you." I was close to him when I said it, close enough that his sadly disordered strands of hair, floating like the wisps of a stormcloud, brushed against my face. 

Sleepily, I reached up and, after a lot of fumbling, I unclasped the necklace and tossed it on the floor. 

"Why'd you do that?" he asked, in a tone full of sleepy reproach. 

"You probably shouldn't sleep with that on. Y' might choke." 

"Oh." He laughed very subtly, nothing more than a change in how he exhaled. "I probably should've thought of that earlier." 

I fell asleep with a smile on my face and an arm around his waist.

* * *

I woke up to a coldness beside me that hadn't been there previously. 

Rolling over and rubbing my eyes groggily, my first thought was that Tony had legged it. Which would be fair enough. He didn't owe me anything. Although that train of thought went nowhere, because I quickly realised he was in the shower. 

The thought occurred to me that I'd wished he'd have woken me up so that I could be in there with him, but I dismissed that. If he didn't ask, then he probably didn't want it. 

I used the kitchen sink to wash up a bit, then set about tidying a bit. The detritus of last night was strewn about the apparent. I picked up the necklace and put it in my pocket, hanging onto the faint hope that he'd want to keep it.

Soon enough, Tony stepped out into my meagre excuse for a sitting room, wearing the same thing he'd been wearing last night. He greeted me with a brief nod and a “Good morning.” 

I smiled brightly. “Morning.” And then, even though it may have been rather cliche, I added, “Sleep well?” 

He let out a bashful puff of laughter. “Yes, I seemed to have fallen into a rather deep sleep quite quickly, didn't I? Oh, sorry about, er, using your shower without asking. I tried to wake you, but you just muttered something at me and rolled over. I, er, I hope you don't mind, thought it'd be best to ask forgiveness later, you know.” 

“Course I don't mind. Of course, now I need to as well…” I brushed past him and into the bathroom. 

When I came back out, freshly showered and shaved, I found Tony inspecting the contents of the refrigerator. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said pre-emptively. “I've been meaning to do the shopping, ooh, for about three days now.” 

He looked a bit sheepish at being caught, them straightened up. He examined his reflection in the window, and threw back a few locks of hair. 

“I should get home.” 

“Come on. At least let me get you breakfast.” 

His eyes flickered back and forth indecisively. “Supposing someone saw us together?” 

I smiled from the corner of my mouth. “No one will suspect anything. Trust me. If you said you had somewhere to be, and then you were spotted with a woman? Someone might suspect something, yes. But with me? That's not where their minds go.” 

He nodded, and began to look a small bit relieved. “I suppose you're right, yes. I mean, I'm just being a bit paranoid, you know. A bit silly, really.” 

I shook my head. “No, no, it's important. You know. There are some unpleasant things out there.” “Which I try to avoid, of course.” 

There was a bit of a silence, in which I tapped my nails against the countertop. “Well,” I said eventually, “Up for a bit of brekkers?” 

“Yes, I'm feeling quite, quite peckish actually.” 

I grinned. “Good. ‘Cause there's this wonderful little café down the road, has the best crepes.” 

I could see his eyes light up a little bit. “Oh, oh really? That's funny, I haven't had a crepe in… oh, about three years, I think.” 

“What happened three years ago that was so special?” 

“Well, we were in Paris,” he said, casually. “On tour, not on holiday.” 

I nodded slowly. “Good to know.” 

I got my hat and coat, and ushered him politely out the door. We took the stairs down, and soon enough were walking along the London streets. Just a couple of men- friends, acquaintances- nothing unusual. 

I was mulling over how Tony would most certainly take comfort in this perception, when I nearly trod on a pigeon. I did not come away looking very dignified. I stumbled and went wide-eyed, and it flapped up, perched on a power line, and glared at me with reproach, which, naturally, I didn't notice that last one, because it was a pigeon. 

Tony tried very diplomatically not to laugh, which, of course, didn't work at all.

It occurred to me then that that was the first time I'd heard him laugh outright, rather than held back by nervousness. It was a lovely laugh, fluttering and bright, like a butterfly. 

I looked at him with an expression of mock hurt. “I swear I look where I'm going! Most of the time.” 

He held up his hands, eyebrows raised in a funny way. “Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure. Yes.” 

We managed to get the rest of the way to the cafe without tripping on any more pigeons. 

If I hadn't known where it was very well, I likely would've passed out by- there was scaffolding above it and the surrounding shops. All part of the constant maintenance of keeping the city’s façade on, I suppose. 

Though the sign was covered by the scaffolding, I knew it was known as “Le Côté.” 

The atmosphere inside was one of a coziness so velvety and close as to almost be overwhelming. The floors were all carpeted, and, despite the daylight, it was dim, in a pleasant way. 

Despite the fact that coffee flowed freely here, the atmosphere was very sleepy. 

The owner, and possibly sole worker at this time of day, Lucien, gave us a cursory look. I waved at him perfunctorily. Tony hovered by my side the entire time, and didn't really say a word. 

“That's Lucien,” I explained to him via a whisper. “Former sailor in the French navy. Grumpiest old frog you'll ever meet.” 

“He certainly looks like an, er, a bit of an old salt, yes.” 

I approached the counter. “I'll take a coffee, two creams, two sugars. And a strawberry crepe.” 

Luc glared at me. From our previous, er, debates, I'd established that he was a purist. He'd refused to sell me a coffee with two creams the first time I'd been here. 

“As you weesh, monsieur,” he said, grudgingly. 

I turned expectantly. “Tony?” 

“Right,” he said, stepping up next to me. “Just a coffee for me, I suppose- black, one sugar. Oh, and a Nutella crepe.” 

Lucien seemed to silently approve of this choice in his own little froggy way, and we went to go find a table. Which, this being a restaurant, wasn't difficult. Each table was set in a bit of an alcove, with some drapey bits of fabric over top. 

Tony and I sat down. His attention was going everywhere, which I didn't at all blame him for. It was funny how his eyes seemed a bit bigger, the irises a bit bluer, when he looked around. 

“Didn't bring an overnight bag?” I asked him, with the plain intent of starting a conversation. 

He shook his head faintly. “No. I didn't. Well, clearly, seeing as how I'm still wearing this, er, this manky old sweater.” 

“Yeah. Don't you think that'd look, well, a little… suspicious? I mean, do you often sleep in your clothes?” 

“Er, well, sometimes, if I'm just really busy and, you know, away from home. I mean, it would make sense in the context of, you know, I was out here for a meeting, and I forgot my evening bag.” 

I nodded understandingly. “Right, right, yeah. I mean, are you sure? I could give you an old shirt of mine, or we could go shopping, or… I dunno, whatever you want to do.” 

“Oh, no, no, that's quite unnecessary. Really. You've… you've already been very kind.” I doubt it was intentional, but, once again, his gaze drifted just so he couldn't see my face, and he moved so that it would stay that way. 

“Not really,” I contradicted gently, “but I don't think I could dissuade you from thinking that.” 

It was then that our respective breakfasts were delivered, borne on a tray by a weedy boy in an apron who looked to be around fourteen. Tony took his with a barely audible “Thank you,” whereas I said nothing. 

I immediately descended upon my crepe, with not a hint of regard for the conversation. I'm not very insistent on many things, but when I'm hungry, I'm hungry. 

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Tony was trying to eat his slowly, or at least look dignified, which is a very difficult feat where Nutella is concerned. 

“‘S good,” he muttered around a mouthful. 

I smiled at him. “Looks like it.” 

He set about trying to clean all the chocolate bits off of his hands with a napkin. 

“You've got some on your face, you know,” I pointed out, helpfully. 

“Have I?” He looked about for shiny surfaces that could possibly serve as a mirror. 

“Yeah. Somehow, you've gotten it on your nose.” 

He began to laugh, in a very genuine, yet self-embarrassed way. 

The way he smiled sort of counteracted the natural downturn his mouth had, and his eyes crinkled at the corners and brightened considerably, like the sun playing on the waves on the sea’s blue surface. 

I may only admit it to myself now, but my heart hurt that I couldn't have had him longer. 

“Oh, lord, I'm such a child,” he laughed. 

“We all deserve to have a little fun,” I said, my contribution. “Here. I'll get it for you.” I wetted the corner of my napkin by dunking it in my coffee, then proceeded to wipe the Nutella from his face, while we both struggled to keep our giggling in check. 

We both polished off our coffees. 

“I've got your necklace,” I said, after a while. 

Tony looked at me curiously, then stared elsewhere. “It isn't mine. I mean, you said you made it for someone, yes?” 

“I can just make another.” I pulled it out of my pocket, and passed it between my hands. The silver links poured back and forth, like slinking mercury. 

“You should have it.” 

He shook his head. “I couldn't possibly. I mean, just to begin with, what would I say to Margaret?” 

I shrugged. “Say you got it for her. Or don't. Maybe just say you thought it looked nice.” 

“Well, I  _ did _ think it looked nice.” 

I let it pour out of my hand and onto the table. It caught what little light there was, and contrasted nicely against the dark wooden grain. 

“All the more reason you should keep it. Trust me, Tony. Women love men who show a little vulnerability.” 

He scoffed good-naturedly. “Er, no offense meant, as it were, but what would you know about being attractive to women?” 

I smiled. “More than you think.” 

For the ensuing moments, he seemed quite lost in thought. “You miss her, don't you.” 

I phrased it as an observation, not a question. He nodded. 

“Then go home. I think you need it.” 

He began to stack his coffee cup on his plate, but I stayed his hand. 

“I'll take care of it. You just take care of yourself, is that alright?” 

He looked down at my hand, then back to my face. 

“Thank you,” he said quite softly, and then was gone.


End file.
